Depression
Hello, friend. Welcome back to The Irrationally Exuberant. I hope you’re taking care of yourself in these troubled times. Which brings me to our topic: Self Care, specifically, dealing with depression. I have it, you, I assume, have it, since you’re listening to this show. Your Mom’s probably got it. Your Dad’s in denial about his, has never done the work needed to overcome it and has instead repressed the deep sadness he feels intrinsically, but also about dreams unfulfilled, potential untapped, relationships irrevocably harmed, and maybe expressed that hurt as anger and resentment over some perceived change in the world that has left him behind, a victim of some ambiguous other.
Little Timmy Messerschmidt: Dis isn’t funny, Weid. Dis is pwetentious pwojection and not neewy as cweve as you fink it is. Why do you even botha? Does anybody even listen to this widiculous show?
Oh, hello Little Timmy Messerschmidt. Ladies and gentleman and ungendered friends, this is Little Timmy Messerschmidt, a little boy/physical manifestation of my depression. Timmy, I thought you were sleeping?
LTM: I don’t neva sweep, I jus west. Isn’t dis show just a futile attempt to mask the meaningless of wife wif artistic pwetensions wifout actuwawy physicawy exposing youself to the outside wold? Isn’t dat just a wittle pafetic? Yo a gwown man doing goofy voices in his basement.
God, Little Timmy, you’re just awful, but also painfully insightful. You know, that may be somewhat true, but that’s what everybody does, or just about everyone. I understand that life is meaningless, probably, but that’s fine. There’s literally nothing you can do to give it meaning, so why worry about it? Even if I were somehow performing this show in front of thousands of people and effusively praised and rewarded, you wouldn’t go away, right? You’d still have negative things to say about it – probably something about selling out or being an imposter or whatever, right?
LTM: Hey wememba all dose times wen you were wiwy dwunk and you cawed wike evwyone you know and just wambled on wike an asshole? You fink they forgot about dat? Or do they just constantly have in da back a der mind how widicuwous you weawy a?
Uh. Timmy, I’m trying to do an episode here. I don’t have time for this. Why are you a little boy, by the way?
LTM: Dunno. I fink you jus had dis dumb voice and fot it would be funny to make it say depwessing fings. So owiginal.
You know what? Since I’ve got you here, and this show’s about depression, why don’t you just plop down in that chair and I’ll ask you some questions. You’re going to be here whether I want you to be or not, so you may as well make yourself useful.
LTM: Weawy? You wusuawy jus igno me. Wew . . . okay. Dis is all jus a finly veiwed and gimmicky pwemise dat you have aweady done befo wif Foam Chomsky.
Great. How old are you?
LTM: I’m dis many!
He’s flashed all ten fingers three times and then held up eight of them, so thirty-eight. Same as me. Makes sense.
Let’s try this another way. Can you think of any reason you might look like a little boy?
LTM: Wew, maybe I’m da age you were when you stahted to wealize dat maybe wife wasn’t pewfect and yo pawents wasn’t pewfect and evewyfing didn’t wevolve awound you.
I assumed I was a bit older when that realization came. You seem like, three, maybe an immature four.
LTM: Wew, I guess you assumed wong. You pwetty dense awot of da time, even do you fink yo soooooo smart, or act wike you do, anyway.
Great. Okay. I feel like we’re making progress. Hey! you spilled my water all over the desk!
LTM: YOU spiwed yo watow aw ove the desk.
God, you’re impossible. Why is clumsiness seem to be such an intrinsic part of depression, for me anyway?
LTM: Because you can’t do anyfing wight! Yo not a gwown up you know. Yo basicallwy and ol child and a burden to dose awound you and evewything you fink is good about yoself is an iwussion.
